


Proprietary

by Osidiano



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Come Shot, Comeplay, Facials, M/M, Mild/Implied Feminization kink, Multiple Orgasms, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-3A, Praise Kink, Pre-Relationship, Scent Marking, True Alpha Scott McCall, Undue Seriousness, pre-3b
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-16 09:51:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4620849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Osidiano/pseuds/Osidiano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the TWKM: Stiles needs to smell like he's having sex with Scott because SERIOUS REASONS and they decide that a facial is the least awkward way to accomplish that, except they're both <i>way</i> more into it than they expected and things keep escalating. Like, Scott has no idea how this got from 'werewolf-awkwardly-masturbating-several-feet-away' to Stiles telling him, "Maybe. . . Maybe you should rub your dick against my face a little. You know. To make sure I smell believable." </p><p>". . .Yeah," Scott pants. "Yeah, that makes sense."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set inbetween 3a and 3b, so no Nogitsune yet. Also, I forgot how timelines work so it's magically the summer after junior year. Scott and Stiles are both 17 in this fic (which is under the legal age of consent in California, which is why this is tagged as underage). The entire point of this fic is to use those two lines of dialogue from the prompt.

Turns out there is a council of North American werewolves, all of whom are apparently really ticked off about the high publicity mess that Beacon Hills has become. At least, that's what Scott is getting out of this pack meeting. And, in a way, it makes sense that it took the reactivation of the Nemeton to get their attention; Deaton said that before the Hale House fire, the council had always trusted the local pack to take care of their own business. But Derek's family is all dead, and they've had a killer alpha and death-defying magic, a kanima and the Argent family vengeance scheme, _and_ Deucalion's alpha pack and the Darach's meddling all in the last twelve months.

That has amounted to an absurd number of murders for a small rural town. It really can't be ignored anymore. The FBI is involved, and it isn't just Scott's jerk of a father investigating the town. There's some big inquiry and committee thing checking out the police department this summer. Insurance investigators are coming in to look over the damage at the hospital. None of this bodes well for supernatural business in the area.

Scott is sitting on Derek's couch, because it makes more sense to have their meetings in Derek's spacious loft than trying to cram everyone into Scott's living room. Even though Derek isn't pack. Honestly, Scott's still not sure that he knows what 'being pack' means. There's a part of him — a dark rumbling, angry, hulking part of him — that might know. A looming, monstrous, red-eyed and growling part of him. With big teeth and bigger claws and a lot of violent impulses and bad attitude and —

He closes his eyes, squeezes his hands where he's been wringing them between his spread knees. _Not now,_ he tells that part of him. He needs to focus on figuring out how to deal with this council. Scott takes a deep breath in through his nose, trying not to think about the scents in the loft, the way they mix and mingle and how some of them are _his_ even when they don't come from him. It's weird. It's hard to explain.

And he thought that just being a beta werewolf was complicated. This alpha thing sucks.

“They'll want to meet you by the remains of the Nemeton, Scott, as it's still a sacred space,” Deaton explains, tapping a mark on the map of the Beacon Hills Preserve they spread out on the table earlier. It's weird to see him outside of the veterinary clinic, but as the only druid emissary they know, it had seemed smart to call him in when Derek found out the council was coming. “If we're lucky, they might even be able to dampen the supernatural signal its broadcasting.”

“You mean, so we might not get overrun with ghouls and ghosties and creepy-crawlies this summer?” Stiles pipes up from where he's hovering off to Deaton's right. Lydia is on the other side of him, drumming her fingers on the map as she scans it. Her look of intense concentration makes Scott nervous these days. “Sounds awesome.”

“They're not going to help us for nothing, you know,” Derek says. He's resting a shoulder against one of the pillars, halfway between the couch and the table. Behind them all, on the metal staircase that spirals up to the second floor, Scott knows that Peter is sitting, watching the younger werewolves, probably plotting something like the creepy creeper he is.

Isaac leans over the back of the couch where he's been standing, resting on his elbows and keeping close to Scott. Ever since Scott presented as a true alpha, it feels like Isaac hasn't been more than an arm's reach away. He's one of the things in the loft that smells like it _belongs to Scott_ , and Scott doesn't know how he feels about that. There's a hint of Allison's perfume clinging to Isaac's shirt, and that's weird, that he can smell her on him despite knowing that they haven't been together in at least a week, and he's not even mad that they're seeing each other except when it makes him _furious_ for no reason.

Scott's not a possessive guy. He's not the jealous type. Besides, he feels _exactly the same_ when he inhales and can pick up Isaac's scent — turned earth and old sorrow, something spicy simmering under the surface — lingering on Allison's hair. It's stupid. Allison's not his girlfriend right now. Isaac has never been his _anything_ other than a friend.

“I think it should just be Scott's pack that meets with them,” Isaac says, and Scott doesn't have to look to know that the beta is glaring at Ethan and Aiden when he speaks. The twins are by the door, which is where they usually end up when they make appearances for pack meetings. Not that they're pack, because they aren't. They've never been pack. Neither of them smell like _his_ , the way that Isaac and Allison do, or even like something close but _not_ , like the way Derek does now that he's a beta again. They smell like rainwater and rage and sandalwood. Aiden smells like panic, Ethan's scent carries the weight of loss.

Derek's scent is like smoke and grit and blood, like burnt oak and well-worn leather. Scott can taste his guilt when he breathes through his mouth, heavy and cloying on his tongue. Derek always smells like despair and loathing and _want_.

Scott sighs. They've got six werewolves in the room and nothing that even vaguely resembles a pack. He imagines that if they were a pack, the dynamics would be even weirder and more confusing.

“Probably wise to show a united front,” Lydia muses. It still looks like something is bothering her. Scott really hopes that doesn't mean someone's going to die tonight. It would be great if they had a break from the dying.

“Lydia has a point,” Peter agrees, and when Scott twists in his seat to look back at the older werewolf he can see that he's smiling. It doesn't reach his eyes, just a hollow, weird expression that Scott doesn't like. At all. Lydia scowls at his input. “If it doesn't look like the local alpha has things under control, they might leave someone behind to reign in the area. With an active Nemeton, Beacon Hills isn't the kind of place they can just ignore or leave up to chance anymore.”

“And maybe that's a good thing?” Scott shoots back. “Maybe we need some adults who know what they're doing.”

Peter opens his mouth, perhaps to point out that both he and Derek are adults, when Stiles interjects:

“Ha! Yeah, no, grown-ups who aren't off-their-rocker crazy or a failwolf. No offense, Derek,” he adds quickly, then scoffs at himself. “What even am I saying. Yes, offense, Derek. So much offense! All the offense.”

Aiden snorts and tries to hide a smile under one hand. Derek just glowers at Stiles for a moment before sneering, “I think it would be safer for everyone involved if the human members of your pack stayed home.”

Stiles' mouth drops open in outrage at the suggestion. He sputters around a comeback, but Lydia interrupts. “Wonderful. I have _no_ desire to go anywhere near this.”

“You have a bad feeling?” Allison asks. She's the only one actually sitting by the table, her chair turned around so that she can straddle it, her arms crossed atop the backrest and her chin balanced on the bone of her wrist. It makes it so she has to look up through her lashes, which Scott is sure is not intentional but makes his stomach flip anyway. Lydia nods slowly, lips pursed. 

“I don't know if it's a banshee thing or just an intuition thing,” she says, looking up from the map at the boys in the room. She shrugs. “Maybe it's nothing?”

“We might as well stray on the side of caution,” Deaton reminds her, as if anyone in the room thinks it would be a good choice to ignore a banshee's death sense. “I know that I won't be in attendance, at any rate.” There's a pause, as they focus on him, and he looks around the loft. “Oh, no. I'm not pack. They'll be able to tell.”

Scott knows this. At least, he thinks he knows it. He's pretty sure that Deaton is not pack; he doesn't really smell like much, beneath the layers of clinic and medicine and herbs, a hint of mountain ash and something sharp. Maybe that's magic he's sensing, or whatever it is that makes Deaton a druid instead of just a really well-informed vet. 

“Anyone who shows up and doesn't smell like pack is probably not going to survive this meeting,” Peter points out. Scott frowns. That means most of them aren't going to be able to go with him to the meeting with the council. “And it could be seen as you being an ineffectual alpha, if you can't even keep the meeting place secure for a few hours.”

“I'm _going_ , and nobody can stop me,” Stiles grumbles, folding his arms over his chest and trying not to pout. He fails. That's definitely Stiles' pouty face. Allison rolls her eyes.

“Is there anything else we should keep an eye on while they're in town? I mean, even if we can't go to the meeting, we can still keep the peace, patrol our territory, or whatever. Show them that we can handle things here.”

“Or we could let someone who knows what they're doing take over,” Scott points out. Isaac growls.

“This is yours, Scott. We can't just let them take it from you.”

“Actually, it's Hale Family territory,” Peter says. “And since there's still an alpha Hale, technically Beacon Hills belongs to Cora.”

“So. . .” Scott starts, brows furrowed and nose wrinkled up in confusion. He's not sure he likes where Peter is going with this. But he doesn't know why he _dislikes_ it, either. Scott doesn't _want_ to be the Big Bad Wolf of Beacon Hills, but that alpha part of him is gnashing its teeth and bristling at the idea of not actually owning all this space, all these people. 

And how messed up is that? That he's getting angry and wants to snarl and lash out because Peter is implying that Scott doesn't _own_ this? These are his friends, people that he wants to protect and look out for. They don't belong to him, and he shouldn't need to feel like they do. 

“What, I'm supposed to tell the council that I'm just wolf-sitting for Cora while she's in South America on vacation?” his voice is tight with annoyance. Derek straightens away from the wall and Ethan and Aiden tense up over by the door. Isaac bares his teeth at them, eyes flashing gold. It smells like a storm is brewing, emotions running hot and electric in the air. Scott is rumbling, a low rough growl that he doesn't recognize as his own as he glares at Peter.

Peter is not pack. Peter is about the furthest thing from pack in the room. He smells like death and grave dirt, like the dark magic that revived him has been smeared into his skin until what he is has drowned in it. The older beta's scent is like dried blood and wolfsbane, and there's always the trace of smoke surrounding him, and Scott wonders if Peter can smell that, too, if that's part of what drives him mad, that he can't escape the Hale Fire and the memory of his own burning body.

“Hey,” Allison interrupts his thoughts, and he doesn't know when she moved but she's sitting next to him on the couch, touching from hip to knee. Scott blinks, and it's only when he's trying to calm his heart rate that he realizes his eyes are glowing red, that his teeth have elongated into fangs. It's not a full-blown wolf-out; he's not sure that he's ready for that just yet. He hasn't done it since becoming an alpha, and he's worried about controlling it.

Isaac's hand is on his shoulder. Scott isn't sure if Isaac is trying to anchor himself, or offering to be Scott's anchor.

“We don't have to figure this out tonight,” she reminds him. She's always reminding him, bringing him back to the present. Her scent surrounds him, familiar and comforting; gun oil and lavender with a hint of bow resin and leather. Scott nods jerkily and then ducks his head. He's grateful and he knows that he doesn't have any right to her. “We have two days.”

“Yeah,” he says, and he can feel the way the other werewolves in the loft relax. He can smell it, but there's something more than that. Like another sense, one he didn't have before. It's weird. This whole thing is weird. It was so much easier to ignore all this werewolf stuff as a beta. Allison puts her hand on Scott's knee, but it's a brief, fleeting touch. She still. . . she still feels like _his_ , even though he knows that she's not. “Yeah, let's. . . let's just call it a night for now.”

Deaton nods and reaches for his jacket. “We can pick up where we left off tomorrow. I'll see if I can find out who, exactly, the council is sending in the meantime.”

Scott watches as Allison gets up and Isaac follows her out, growling at the twins when they pass them by the door with Deaton. Lydia leaves next, pausing in the entryway when Scott calls out to her:

“Lydia!” She turns, toying with her long hair. “Is there anything else we can find out about the Nemeton? And sealing it or destroying it or whatever? Just in case the council doesn't want to help us.”

“I'm on it,” she replies, her tone airy in that exasperated way she sometimes still says things. He knows that asking her to research something doesn't actually get on her nerves, so he's not sure why she still plays like she's annoyed. Is Lydia pack? Scott's not sure. She smells close, like Derek does, like they're on the edge and flirting with the idea of belonging. Lydia's scent is all flowers and smooth cream, silk and vanilla and the cool breeze off the local lake.

But if he gets close enough, if he takes a deep breath when he's standing right next to her, Scott knows that she smells like tears and terror and, faintly, like no matter how hard she scrubs it just won't go away, like Peter.

“You should leave, too,” Scott tells him, not looking away from where the door to the loft is closing behind Lydia. Peter raises a brow but rises to his feet without argument. They all seem to know who he's speaking to, and it's not a discussion or an argument. It's weird how they all go along with things he says. Not all the time, but sometimes. Sometimes it's just. . . easy. To follow because he's the alpha now.

Scott is the alpha now and everyone is counting on him to make the right choices, to know what good decisions look like. But his instincts aren't telling him any more than they ever did, because becoming the alpha didn't magically make him know more about how to be werewolf, or how to organize or lead a pack.

No wonder Derek struggled with it so much. This is hard and weird and Scott just kind of wants to give it back.

“He has a point, though,” Ethan says, and his voice is loud in the quiet that's left over. The sound of their breaths and heartbeats and Stiles' restless fidgeting by the table. Scott looks away from the door at long last. “About people not smelling like pack.”

Scott sighs again and rubs a hand over his face. He lets himself fall sideways onto the couch cushions as he groans, “I don't even know what that _means_. Does anybody even smell like pack?”

Derek shrugs. “Isaac and Allison smell like they're part of your pack, but other than that, not really, no.”

“Hey!” Stiles hops down from the table, where he had perched himself sometime in the last few minutes. “I'm pack! I've been part of Scott's pack since before he was a werewolf! We were a pack of two before all you weirdos showed up.”

Aiden rolls his eyes. “Yeah, by human standards, sure. But if he shows up to this council meeting with you in tow, they're gonna eat you.”

Scott drops his hand and looks up in alarm. “What? Really?”

“Or maybe they'll just rip him to pieces in front of you to prove that you're a bad alpha,” Derek offers. Maybe he's trying to be helpful. It doesn't work. Stiles makes a face at him.

“Stiles is definitely part of my pack, always was,” Scott says quickly. “So why doesn't he smell like it then?”

“He is human,” Ethan reminds him.

“So's Allison,” Scott counters.

“Yeah, but you've slept with her,” Aiden says, shrugging. “So she smells like you, and like she belongs to you. Like pack, even though she's not a wolf.”

“You could give him the bite,” Derek points out. “If you turn him, he's guaranteed to smell like pack unless you exile him.”

“Excuse me, I am _right here_ ,” Stiles says with a windmill flail of arms as he gathers attention back to himself, ending with both index fingers pointed at his own chest. “And I do not want to be a werewolf, so no one is giving me the bite. There's gotta be another way for people to be added to the pack without the involvement of teeth or sex.”

The three born-werewolves exchange a look. Scott can't tell if it's just unimpressed or if they're actually communicating something through it. 

“You could try scent-marking him,” Aiden suggests. The words are barely out of his mouth before Stiles is yelling: 

“ _No one is peeing on me!_ ”

“It doesn't have to be urine!” he shouts back. “There are other bodily fluids that'll work. It'll just take time, is all, and the meeting isn't that far away.”

“I used my blood when I was marking my betas,” Derek explains to Scott with a shrug. Stiles gets a queasy, uncomfortable look at the thought and comes over to sit on the couch next to Scott's feet. “But he's right: it takes time to scent-mark someone so that they'll pass as pack. If it's not enough, then he'll just smell like you've bled on him or been around each other a lot.”

And that. . . okay, that sort of makes sense. It would also explain why Stiles smells more like Derek than he does like Scott, despite him and Scott having been friends forever. Not that Stiles smells like Derek's pack or anything; he doesn't smell like Erica or Boyd or Isaac had, before Isaac started to smell like _Scott's_. Stiles' scent is earthy and musky, a little bit like the Jeep's upholstery and the sugar pines that grow behind their homes. It's familiar and smells like home, with something vibrant and energetic zinging through it, but not like _pack_. Not like _Scott's_.

That's the part that doesn't make sense. He and Stiles have been best friends for much longer than Scott has even known Isaac and Allison. They spend hours around each other every day. So why doesn't Stiles smell like pack, even when Scott can smell himself on the boy's clothes or rubbed off on his skin in passing?

“It, uh. . . Scent-marking goes a lot faster if you use jizz.”

No one says anything for a long moment. Scott is positive that he's misheard that. There's no way they're having a serious discussion about how to keep a bunch of experienced, adult werewolves from killing Stiles and someone has suggested the use of anybody's _jizz_ as a real, viable option. He sits up and stares at Ethan, who is looking up at the ceiling as if there's something fascinating up there. Scott thinks he just doesn't want to meet anyone's gaze after making a statement like that.

“How do you know that?” Derek asks, his eyebrows raised so high it looks like they're trying to escape into his hairline. Stiles is just moving his mouth wordlessly, as though Ethan's suggestion has rendered him incapable of speech. Aiden looks like he's trying very, _very_ hard not to laugh.

“It's because it smells like sex!” Ethan says defensively, tone spiking with embarrassment. “And there's no way to mistake it, like with blood! It's. . . Oh, come on. You're all acting like you've never given someone a pearl necklace or a facial before.”

Scott only knows what those are because of the internet. He's definitely never done anything like that in the one serious relationship he's ever had. Ethan is literally suggesting that Scott do something to his best friend that he's only seen done by people in _porn_. A part of him dies a little on the inside.

“You think Scott should _jizz on me_ so that it _smells_ like he's _had sex with me_.” Stiles sounds like he's in that stage of shock that comes right before hysteria. Scott can't even look at his friend right now, and just buries his face in his hands. There's a part of him that is strangely intrigued by all this. Scott has no idea what that means or what he's supposed to do with that revelation. “You're joking. You've gotta be. You're all using your born-werewolf status to punk us right now. Not cool, dudes. So totally not cool.”

“It's a statement of ownership,” Aiden starts to say, but Scott interrupts him by standing so abruptly that he accidentally knocks Stiles off the couch and onto the floor in the process. The betas all go still and silent.

“That's enough.” Scott looks around the room sternly, as if daring them to go against him. None of them do. Derek averts his gaze completely, head bowed slightly. Of course they don't. He's the alpha now, and they may not be his pack but they're all thinking about it, considering it. No one wants to be an omega in Beacon Hills with trouble on the way. “We'll regroup tomorrow. Stiles is pack, and he's coming to the meeting with the council. So figure something out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://tnw-kinkmeme.livejournal.com/4905.html?thread=1005609#t1005609).


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's that, Lassie? This prompt didn't ask for praise or implied feminization kinks intermixing with my weird machismo alpha feelings?! WELL. Uh. . . I got nothing. There's no excuse for anything in this smutty chapter. Apparently, that's just how I write Scott McCall. I only regret that it's not more awkward.

The drive home from Derek's loft feels longer than usual. They leave the radio off, stewing in the silence with just engine noises and the sound of tires over asphalt for ambiance. Stiles is gripping the Jeep's steering wheel too hard, his knuckles white and his left leg bouncing with unspent energy. Scott keeps glancing over at him from the passenger seat, unsure what he's supposed to do now. He should probably apologize. This is his weird werewolf problem and it's not cool to suggest that he owns people. Or needs to own them. No wonder Stiles feels awkward right now.

“I'm sorry if —“

“Maybe we should try it.”

Scott's mouth twists into an 'o' of confusion, eyes narrowing as he tries to figure out where Stiles is coming from right now. He's had a lot of practice over the years at following conversations that seem to pick up out of no where, but the only thing his mind offers up as a possible topic is Ethan's scent-marking suggestion from the loft. And that's. . . that's. . . Stiles wouldn't be down for that.

“What?”

“You know,” Stiles says meaningfully, as if Scott is being obtuse on purpose. “The jizz thing.”

His mouth goes dry, brain stutter-stepping to an uncomprehending halt. “ _Huh_?”

“I mean, it's not _blood_ , I don't think I'll _faint_ or anything,” Stiles is saying, talking fast like if he can get his reasoning out in under a minute it will have some positive effect on Scott's reaction. His leg is still bouncing and he's still holding the wheel too hard and he's staring at the road with a level of intensity normally reserved for life-or-death situations. “It's just _jizz_ , it's not like I've never accidentally gotten it on myself before, it'll like, wipe off, it's not like it's gonna seep into my skin and impregnate me with your werewolf babies. And if it means that I can go to this council meeting and not get chewed on by strangers then that's cool, you know? Like, I think it'd be worth it. I don't want to stay behind like. . . like I'm. . . like you don't. . .”

Oh. Scott knows where this is going, knows what it is Stiles is struggling to say. “Hey.” He reaches out to place a hand on Stiles' arm, reassuring. “You're pack. You matter. Of course I need you.”

“Okay.” Stiles seems to calm down a little at that, sparing a glance over to Scott before refocusing on the road as he turns onto Scott's street. “Okay,” he says again, quieter this time. He parks the Jeep in front of the house. Kills the engine and pulls his keys out of the ignition. “So, are you gonna do it?”

“What, right now?”

“Dude, no, not like, _in_ Roscoe, that's weird.” Stiles fidgets with his keys, shifting them around in his hand so that his house key clinks against the old bike lock key he still has. “And super rude. What if you get your splooge on his seats or the center console or something?”

“Then I guess he'll be mine,” Scott replies with a roll of his eyes, feigning irritation and huffing a little. “Apparently that's how that works now.”

Their eyes meet for a second in the dim street light, and Scott almost thinks they're going to keep being serious until Stiles chokes on a breathy laugh, and both their straight-faced expressions crumble in the wake of just how damn _ridiculous_ this is.

“Oh my god, man,” Stiles gasps, rocking in his seat, trying to scale back to a snicker and failing. “This is like, as close to a 'fuck-or-die' scenario as we're ever gonna get, isn't it? Can this please count as a 'sex-to-save-the-world' thing? I wanna cross that trope off my bucket list.”

“We. . . we already had that this year,” Scott manages to say, still chuckling. He lists towards the center console to meet Stiles halfway, their shoulders pressing into one another as he grins at his best friend. It's nice, that even though everything is crazy and messed up and weird, it always come back to the two of them, together. “I could've taken your virginity when you first told me about the Darach sacrifices. I-I wasted your 'fuck-or-die' moment, Stiles, I'm sorry.”

“You dick!” he yells without heat, face flushed. But he's smiling when his hand slides up onto Scott's shoulder, settling the web of flesh between thumb and index finger against the base of his neck and gives him a good-natured shake. “Come on. You can make it up to me by taking me up to your room and getting your weird wolf-musk all over me so I don't die later.”

“Yeah, okay,” Scott agrees, unbuckling his seat belt. They exit the Jeep, and Stiles trails after him up to the door, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he waits for Scott to unlock it.

“You know, I would never waste your 'fuck-or-die' moment. And I would definitely have sex with you to save the world,” Stiles announces, which earns him an overly dramatic eye roll from Scott. The door opens, and he holds it open for his friend, who brushes past him and heads up the stairs. “Clearly, I am the better friend.”

And that's. . . He stares up at the dark outline of Stiles' body as the other boy crests the top of the stairs and disappears from view. There's something unfamiliar buzzing under his skin, itching like a shift before the full moon. They're going to do this. Like, really actually do this thing. Scott isn't even sure that he knows what this thing is that they're doing.

Scent-marking. That's an animal thing. And apparently also a werewolf thing. He's read about it in the abstract, a few random lines in some book about wolves and dogs, but he didn't retain much. It wasn't something he needed to know. At the time. He swallows hard, hoping that Stiles knows more than he does, which would be par for the course of their friendship, and closes the door behind himself. Locks it again with half-aware motions. Scott has to force his feet to carry him up the stairs and down the short hallway to where his bedroom door has been left open. He pauses in the entryway with a hand on the door jamb, watching Stiles stand in the center of the bedroom they've both spent countless hours in together. It smells like them, their scents all tangled up together and soaked into the furniture and carpet, part of what makes it feel like home.

Stiles is frowning, looking between the bed and Scott's desk with his hands on his hips. “So, should I like, sit for this? Where do you want me?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder back at Scott. Scott just shrugs.

“I don't know.” And he doesn't. Scott doesn't have the first clue how to go about this. There aren't any special werewolf instincts that he can tap into to make this less awkward. Shouldn't he know how to do this, now that he's an alpha? He wishes, for the hundredth time, that the change had come with an instruction booklet, with directions or a helpful 'Read Me' file he could skim.

He can feel Stiles' gaze on him, moving down the length of his body. It's slow, appraising. Scott squirms a little under its intensity.

“Well, you should. . .” Stiles pauses, and Scott can hear his heart rate subtly accelerate, can smell the sweat accumulating along the creases of Stiles' palms. “You should probably strip. _I_ should probably strip. I don't want you to get your. . . It's just, you know, it'll stain. If you get it on my clothes. And you need — I mean, I'm not going to wear this two days from now, so you should just do it, on. . . on me, like, on my skin.”

“Yeah,” Scott agrees, because Stiles is the one who has the marginally less stupid plans, of the two of them. And he has point; Scott needs to scent-mark Stiles, not today's graphic tee and flannel combination. Scott starts to fumble for his belt, fingers clumsy with nerves, and it sounds loud in the tense quiet of his room. He focuses his enhanced hearing on the slide of it as he pulls it from his belt loops so he doesn't have to listen to the rhythm of Stiles' breathing.

He feels hyper-aware of everything, all his senses keyed up and adrenaline thrumming in his blood. Scott moves further into the room and pushes the door shut behind him. The latch is deafening when it catches. Stiles takes off the flannel that still smells like the rest of the group, like the inside of the Jeep, with quick, jerky movements. He takes a step back towards the bed when Scott tries to come closer, like they're circling each other, like he thinks the Big Bad Wolf is going to pounce.

Scott drops his belt on the floor at his feet, toes his shoes off and just stops. He feels like he's looming, like he's prowling when he walks. His movements are predatory, and he feels big, feels huge and intimidating. Stiles doesn't look scared but his eyes are wide and his pulse is up and there's something anxious and warm and a little peppery in the air, and Scott isn't sure what it means that that scent is coming off Stiles in waves until he can practically _taste_ it when he breathes in.

God, he likes the taste of it. What does that even mean for them? Does that make this weirder?

“You should probably do it somewhere really obvious, like in-your-face-can't-cover-it-up kind of thing. So it's like, the first thing they smell when they get near me. It's no big deal, right?” Stiles asks, nervous, licking his lips. Scott tracks the motion of his tongue, the way it flicks out to wet his upper lip, then rolls onto the lower and leaves it shiny, spit-slick. It makes his stomach flip, the way Allison does when he looks at her; makes that growling alpha part of him tense, the way it does when he thinks about Isaac being _his_. “I-I mean, we're just two guys, two guys being pals, what's a little swapped jizz in the greater scheme, you know? Not-not that I'm saying we're gonna. . . I mean, we're not gonna _swap_ , obviously. You're just gonna, you know, blow your load. On me. So I don't get killed for not being pack.”

“You're pack,” Scott says, his voice sounding unnecessarily rough. Stiles takes a sharp breath, heart rate jumping again as he pulls his shirt off, baring the pale, mole-dotted skin of his stomach and chest. Scott drinks in the sight of him, hungry for something he doesn't understand. His teeth ache and he wants to sink them into the firm rise of Stiles' trapezius muscle, bite him hard and deep and leave _marks_ just above his collarbone so everyone knows that this is _his_ , this boy, this human, he belongs to _Scott_ and —

His eyes are glowing red. Scott closes them, squeezes his hands into tight fists at his sides. He breathes deep, slow, careful and controlled, pushing back the shift that is simmering just below the surface. Stiles sits down on the edge of the bed, rests his elbows on his knees and leans forward. Scott can hear the creak of the mattress springs, the slide of one of Stiles' damp palms over the knuckles of his opposite hand where he's fidgeting.

“You should. . .” Stiles starts, then pauses, swallows. Scott grits his teeth. His voice is strained, off its usual pitch. “You should take your pants off.”

“Yeah,” Scott forces the word out, thumbs open the button on his jeans. He opens his eyes, watching the way Stiles watches him unzip and push his pants down around his ankles. Stiles has seen him naked before. Stiles has seen him undress in locker rooms and after gym classes all their lives. They've shared showers and beds and sleeping bags but this is. . . this is weird, charged and sexual in a way that none of their previous interactions have been. He steps out of the puddle of denim, and, feeling stupid standing in just his shirt and boxers, grips the frayed hem of his shirt and pulls that off, too. He repeats Stiles' question from earlier, “Where do you want me?”

“Uh. . .” Stiles gaze is low on Scott's body, too low to be on his pectorals or the defined muscles of his abdomen. The change from beta to alpha has even his human form starting to bulk up, putting on additional pounds of muscle that he didn't have to work for, doesn't have to maintain. It's probably the only cool thing about being the alpha. Scott sets his shoulders back, the shift drawing Stiles attention back up his body. It seems to shake him from whatever thoughts he had been lost in. “Why don't you. . . Why don't you sit in the chair?”

Scott takes a seat in his desk chair, scooting it away from the desk and towards the bed. There's a few feet of space between them, but that's okay. He takes a deep breath, blows it out in something too heavy to classify as a sigh, and rubs his hands on the tops of his thighs. Trying to ground himself. “I'm not. . . I don't know what I should be —”

“Yeah, I got ya,” Stiles says, and his voice is surprisingly steady, if a little breathless. “Just. . . Just jerk off. You know, like you normally would, after a long hard day of werewolfing.”

Scott huffs a laugh, but puts a hand over his crotch all the same. He isn't hard, yet, but it doesn't usually take much. There's something to be said about grinding the heel of a palm down while someone's watching, though. It's weird, having an audience. Like he's supposed to be putting on a show, making it something worth watching. Scott's never done that before.

“Take it out,” Stiles tells him, and Scott starts to obey before he's even realized it. Lifts his hips up off the seat and pushes his boxers down around his thighs, over his knees and down his calves to catch at his feet. He can hear Stiles' shift on the bed, but doesn't look. Scott lets his fingers drift along the shaft, gentle touches up and down the soft length of his dick, trying not to feel awkward as he lets himself stretch out, slouched down in the chair with his ass on the edge, his head rolling limply on his neck to settle on the backrest, staring up at the ceiling. He's breathing deep, slow, chest expanding on every inhale, legs spreading until he's stopped by the stretched waistband of his boxers.

“Like that?”

“Yeah. Yeah, that's. . .” Stiles makes a garbled, unintelligible noise. “That's good, you're good.”

His dick jumps a little at the praise. He knows that's a thing for him, that he likes knowing how he's doing so well. Likes hearing that he's strong or handsome or how good he's making his partner feel. This isn't the first time Stiles has praised him.

Stiles knows that he's the alpha, the apex predator. He thinks Scott is the hottest girl, that his heroism is sexy. And that's. . . God, that's weird. This is _so weird_ and _awkward_ , to be thinking about when he's touching himself like this. But Stiles is his best friend, and needs him. Scott lets go briefly, raises his hand and licks a wet path across his palm before he reaches for his hardening cock again.

Scott would do anything for his best friend. And right now, what Stiles needs him to do is masturbate until he comes. _All over him_.

The thought punches a moan out of him, all breath and low, husky noise. He starts his strokes off slow, long twisting pulls from base to tip that let him rub his thumb over the head of his cock to smear the bead of pre-come forming there. His skin feels hot all over. He can hear Stiles breathing, loud and too close even though they're not within touching distance, can feel the other boy's heartbeat thumping like an extension of his own.

And that's not. . . That can't be. . . _Normal_ , he thinks, but then again, he wouldn't know. Maybe it always feels this intimate, this personal, when jerking off for someone.

“Can you. . .” Scott tries to ask, shuts his eyes and grits his teeth. He needs to take his mind off this, get himself out of his head. “Can you, like, talk or something?”

“Wh-what?” Stiles chokes. “You need. . . you want me to give you a _peptalk_  while you _jack off_?!”

“ _Stiles_ ,” he tries to come off as stern, with warning in his tone, but his tempo picks up in that same moment so it just ends up sounding frantic and hopelessly needy. It's a smooth slide of motion, cock straining toward his stomach, arm pumping quicker and quicker. It feels good, the friction, the pressure. He can't feel how sore his jaw is, or how his face throbs with the restraint it takes not to shift, when he's focusing on his dick. His fingertips hurt where his claws are trapped under his nails. “I don't need a peptalk, I just need to think about something else. This is _weird_.”

“Okay, okay, _Jesus_ , right, yeah, jus' lemme, lemme. . . oh my god,” Stiles groans. “Uh. . . What do you normally think about when you jerk off?”

He's thought about Isaac before, though that's more recent and not very often; imagined the beta on his knees, hands behind him to showcase his submission. Or belly-up on his back with his neck bared, gold eyes half-parted as Scott forces whimpers from his body. He's thought about Derek before, too, about them throwing each other around the train depot or the loft, biting and scratching down his back until the older werewolf howls for it. Hell, Scott's thought about _Lydia_ before, her perfect painted mouth quirked as she raises a hand and tells him to 'sit,' 'stay.' To 'heel.'

That's probably a weird thing to be into, especially now that he's the alpha.

“A-allison,” he answers, and that's mostly the truth. Scott does think about Allison a lot, the way her hair tickles his chest when she's riding him and leaning down for a kiss, how her hands feel clutching at his skin. The way she smells, and sounds, and _tastes_.

Allison, who would giggled during sex when his lips stamped a path up her body — a joking 'good boy' before they kissed, mouths stretched by matching smiles — and would wrap her arms around his neck and nibble on his ear and tell him 'yes, there, oh _god, Scott_ ' when he thrust deep inside her.

He wonders if that's how Stiles would want to be fucked.

“I'm gonna. . .” the rest of that statement peters out in a groan as Scott grips the base of his dick harder, trying to hold the orgasm off long enough for one of them to move. If he shoots now, it'll be wasted. Because he's masturbating _with purpose_ and _intent_ , because his is a life made insane by weird werewolf practices. Stiles jerks his head up, gaze snapping from Scott's dick to his face.

“Oh! Oh my god, I-I, uh. . .” Stiles sputters, flailing a bit as he falls off the edge of the bed. He hits his knees hard with a curse and fumbles his way closer. It isn't graceful, or sexy, or coordinated; it's a gangly splay of long limbs and too much energy expended for the two and a half feet Stiles manages to cross. “You-you gotta —”

Warm hands drop onto Scott's knees, and his legs spread further to accommodate the sudden arrival of Stiles' torso between them. Scott's breath catches, and their eyes meet — both wide and shocked with pupils blown black in arousal — and then Scott is coming. The first pulse hits Stiles squarely in the throat, a hot splash of come that makes the other boy yip and freeze in place. A second splatters across his collarbone, the third and fourth leaving sticky stripes of white dripping down his chest, obscuring a constellation of moles across the dip at the bottom of his sternum.

Objectively, Scott is aware that being a werewolf has changed certain aspects of his biology. He even knows that some of those changes involve sexy-time things, like stamina and refractory periods. And, apparently, come production. He hadn't noticed before because normally he uses a condom with Allison or jerks off in the shower for an easy clean up, and the latex just expands to hold the fluid and the water washes it all away before he ever really thought about it.

But that's. . . that's a lot of come. Scott's body is relaxing in the wake of his orgasm, endorphins flooding his system. His brain feels hazy, drunk on pleasure, skipping over and then pausing on details like he can't quite figure out what matters, what's important. He blinks a couple of times, trying and failing to focus.

“Oh my god.” Stiles sounds wrecked, sounds like he has to drag his voice through gravel and broken glass to get it out of his mouth. His open, quivering mouth. As he stares down at the come on his torso, at the wet tracks it leaves behind as gravity pulls it sluggishly toward his navel and the top of his jeans. They watch a drop ease past the waistband, and Stiles lets out a broken, desperate whine. “Oh my _god, Scott_.”

Stiles looks back up at him, gripping Scott's legs just above the knees hard, like maybe he wants to leave bruises. His eyes are too wide, too dark, too hungry and wanting. Scott doesn't realize that he's been holding his breath until his chest tightens around the strain, and he sucks in a deep breath through his nose. It smells like sex and desire and _need_ , like sugar pine and pepper and sweat. Like he's _Scott's_. “You've got like, crazy werewolf regeneration powers, right?”

His own hand tightens on the base of his dick, slips up to the tip and squeezes. There's come on his fist and he's still hard.

“I. . .” he has no idea what he's trying to say, what he's supposed to do now. Stiles is just staring at him.

“Can you. . . can you do that again?” Stiles asks, the words rushing out of him, and his whole body is shaking almost imperceptibly. Trembling. The skin on his arms has pebbled with gooseflesh despite the room's temperature. “I mean, you should. . . you should probably do it again. Because scent-marking. And the council. And the-the not dying.”

“What?”

“Scott. Scott, Scotty, buddy. Pal.” Stiles sits back on his heels. He licks his lips again, sucks the lower one into his mouth for just a second before continuing to speak. Scott wants to bite him, wants to roar and howl down his come-coated throat. Wants to kiss him until Stiles' mouth is red and swollen with bruises. “I need you, to do this. For me. Do this for me?”

“Y-yeah,” Scott nods, confused and feeling woozy. He spits into his hand and starts to stroke himself again, wincing when he realizes how sensitive he is. Stiles squirms, shifting closer and exhaling a pained _augh_. Scott can feel that breath along his inner thighs, ghosting over his hand, over his damp cockhead. “It's gonna. . . it's gonna take awhile, this time.”

“Uh-huh.” Stiles' gaze has gone glassy, unfocused, his jaw slack. His eyes follow the leisurely up and down motions of Scott's hand. “Tha's fine, you're good, Scott. You're. . . you're really, _really_ good.”

“Yeah?” he asks, waits for Stiles to nod absently in agreement. Scott smiles, lopsided, mouth curling up to bare his teeth at the other boy. He feels like preening, like he's pretty when Stiles looks at him like that, acknowledges that he's good. It gets a warm flush of arousal down his chest, curling at the base of his spine. “Yeah, I'm good. I'm the alpha.”

Stiles just keeps nodding. “Yeah, Scott, yeah. You're the alpha. You're a really good alpha.”

“I'm the best alpha,” he prompts. The words feel distorted, come out clumsy around the wrong teeth. His canines have extended into fangs, his incisors shifting into short, sharp points. Stiles doesn't even blink.

“You are the _best alpha_ ,” Stiles tells him in earnest. "Maybe. . . Maybe you should rub your dick against my face a little. You know. To make sure I smell believable."

". . .Yeah," Scott pants. There's a hint of that booming rebound his voice gets after a shift, like if he speaks any louder they'll be able to hear the sound waves echo. "Yeah, that makes sense."

He straightens from his seat, muscles rolling him into a standing position so quickly that it startles Stiles. The other boy falls over himself in an attempt to backup in time, arms in all directions and legs kicking out in an ungainly fashion. He gapes at Scott, taking in the glowing eyes and sudden appearance of hair along the curve of his jaw, spreading up his cheek, past his pointed ears and into his hairline as if for the first time. The distortion of his brow and forehead, the ridges furrowing the bridge of his nose.

As an alpha, he's bigger everywhere. Wider, taller. He lets go of his dick, arms falling to his sides as he flexes his hands, knuckles expanding with an audible 'pop.' His fingers lengthen, nails pushing out from the tips to curve into heavy talons.

Scott steps forward, shoulders up and head down, a deep growl reverberating through his chest. Stiles starts to scrabble back in a kind of frenzied crab-walk, feet finding poor purchase on the carpet, hands slipping out from under him when he tries to move them before redistributing his weight. He keeps facing towards Scott, like he's afraid to turn his back, but it doesn't smell like fear.

He ends up trapped between Scott and the foot of the bed, the edge of the mattress pressing against the base of his skull as he stares up up _up_ at the werewolf. Scott crowds him, puts a knee up on the mattress and grabs his leaking cock with one hand. The other hand goes in Stiles' short hair, pulling his head further back. He rocks his hips forward, dragging the tip of his dick up the flat plane of Stiles' cheek, smearing pre-come on his skin.

Stiles makes a noise like he's been gutted.

Aiden was right. It is absolutely about ownership. His dick grazes over the cheekbone, past the corner of one wild eye, up onto Stiles' brow. Pushes the short hairs there the wrong way when Scott guides his dick towards the center of Stiles' forehead, moves down the bridge of Stiles' nose like the most intimate of caresses. Stiles' mouth falls open, and Scott traces the shape of his upper lip with his dick. Lets the weight of it press on the lower one, pulling it down to expose wet heat and the human's blunt teeth.

Stiles' hands find Scott's strong thighs, fingers scratching and digging in, and he moans when Scott pulls his dick off of his mouth, tries to jerk forward to chase it and is held back by the clawed hand tangled in his hair. His tongue comes out, the tip just escaping the part of his lips, tasting the fluid that has been left there.

Scott snarls, hips snapping forward and arm tensing as he pulls Stiles' head to meet him, rubbing his cockhead against Stiles' mouth again. He opens wider, tongue flattening and coming out further. Lets Scott use him, thrust shallowly up the length of his tongue and just past the barrier of his teeth with hungry little 'ah ah _ah_ 's. It's wet and hot and there's saliva escaping the corners of his stretched mouth, coating Stiles' chin.

Stiles tries to bob his head, but Scott shakes him into going limp in his grip. He is the alpha, and he gets to set the pace. This is about submission and trust and Stiles being _his_ and that's what does it for Scott.

He backs up just far enough to come on Stiles' face without warning. The other boy snaps his eyes shut, face scrunching up as he flinches in surprise. It splashes over his nose, his brow, drips onto his closed lids. His mouth is pressed into a thin line, Scott's come splattered over his lips. The alpha gasps and strokes himself through the orgasm, wringing out the last drops and rolling his hips. Grinding his dick into Stiles' skin, through the come on his cheek and dripping off his jaw.

Stiles' lips part to push out a breath, blowing droplets of come onto Scott's pelvis. They're both breathing hard and trembling a little. Scott lets go of Stiles' hair, claws retracting as he struggles to back out of his shift. It takes him a moment to realize that Stiles has gotten his jeans open, has pushed them down as far as he can without changing position and is jerking off, fast and desperate, Scott's come easing the frantic pace. His breath hitches, catches, heart fluttering, and Stiles' climaxes with a pitchy whine, shooting onto his own stomach.

“Oh my god,” he gasps, head lolling back onto the mattress, his arm dropping to his side bonelessly. “ _Oh my god_.”

“Are you okay?” Scott asks, carding his hand through Stiles' hair to check that he didn't scratch him. There's no blood, and no pain that he can siphon away.

“Does that count as sex? I feel like that should count as sex,” Stiles says instead of answering. Scott smoothes his thumbs over Stiles' closed lids, trying to wipe the come away so that he can open his eyes when he's ready. “I feel like I've been sexed. Did you just sex me?”

“I. . .” He's not sure how to answer that.

“That was. . . that was amazing. Like, that was _awesome_ , Scott, oh my god.”

Scott can't help the satisfied smirk that gets out of him, the zing of excitement that goes up his spine. “Well, you certainly smell like me now.” _Like mine_ , he doesn't say, because there's a kind of pride and possessiveness in that that he's not prepared to deal with yet. What ends up coming out is, “We should probably do that again before the meeting to make sure it doesn't wear or wash off, or something.”

“Yeah,” Stiles sighs blissfully, grinning. “Yeah, that makes sense.”


End file.
